As Written By Losers
by Kyusil
Summary: In an army designed for conquest and destined for failure, two bottom-rung soldiers form an uncommon friendship through their struggle to stay alive. FE6.


_Dear Miles,_

_I would have said all this to you the night before you left, but with everything else you had to deal with to get ready, I wasn't even sure you'd be awake enough to listen. This way, you'll at least be able to look back at my letter._

_Your family and I hated seeing you so hopeless ever since the draft was issued. I know it'll be difficult for all of us. You're probably more scared now than you were at home, but please promise me that you won't just give up. It's true that the future is unpredictable, but we all need to believe that you'll be all right. That's the only way we can get through this._

_I'll keep everything safe and running smoothly while you're gone. Don't get exhausted worrying about us; we will be fine. We've all had times rougher than this in our lives, so as long as everything else stays the way it is, the war shouldn't give us more than we can handle. That goes for you as well. I know that whatever happens on your end of things, you'll bear it with strength and dignity. I wouldn't have married a lesser man._

_Please write back whenever you get the chance. It will be very sweet to hear from you. Wherever you are, remember that you are loved very much._

_ Hoping for your safe return,_

_ Chelsea_

He wished it had been longer. His only reminder of the person he cherished most, and it filled just one small sheet of parchment—a hundred carefully-chosen words, with none of the hints of wry humor or playfulness he'd come to expect from her. He could see Chelsea vividly in his mind's eye, her chestnut hair falling in springy waves around her shoulders, eyes like a fresh rain over the fields, a smile that could pierce and shatter him with warm delight… but how long would it be before her image would become hazy, and her voice distant? But maybe that wouldn't be a problem, he thought, gripping the letter more tightly, sharp breaths streaming in and out between his teeth… he could be killed as soon as the first battle. It could be a matter of weeks.

Miles glanced up at the entrance of the tent to see if anyone was approaching. He could feel his face getting hot, and he wasn't about to let his first impression to his fellow soldiers be anything less than collected. Though the voices of the other men were little more than distant murmurs now, he knew the supply tent was a poor hiding place. But what else was he supposed to do—go to pieces in front of brutes twice his size? They'd already seen to one of the new recruits, a young man who had made the mistake of whimpering out loud; it only took two veterans to beat him until he was silent. Miles had retreated among the barrels and crates with the intention of taking a moment to calm down after seeing all that, but it had been much longer than a moment and he could still feel his hands shaking. At home, all it took was a scythe or spade and some time in his fields for his anxiety to subside. _Sore shoulders fix sore brows, _as his father always said. Looking around the tent, the tools were altogether different: swords, spears, even a few bows with tattered strings. He'd have to fit his hands to one of these weapons, and while he was confident enough in his strength—he could toss bales of fodder and carry sheep with no trouble— the thought of fighting gave him little comfort.

Something sounded very close to the tent and Miles jumped, nearly dropping his letter. He edged backwards onto the crate, losing sight of the entrance just as the stray, tuneless whistle followed its owner inside. Maybe if he composed himself just enough and appeared focused on his letter, he wouldn't seem conspicuous even if he was spotted. His eyes traced the sweeps and points of Chelsea's handwriting as he tried to listen less to the visitor's rustling and more to the sound of his own breathing.

But the other noises made him curious. There was a lot of rummaging; clinking glass and shifting cloth; an occasional pause in the man's whistling to sniff at something. This didn't sound anything like someone hauling out weapons—in fact, the more he listened, the more convinced Miles became that he was hearing a thief's work. _How'd he get in? Don't they have patrols 'round their camps out here? _Granted, Captain Lawrence wasn't anything like the stories Miles had heard of Bern's straight-backed, legendarily strict officers, with voices as sharp as the barbs on their wyverns' tails— he droned, and his only mount was a weary-looking horse— but he ought to at least have a few men stationed to stop looters. _Looters…_ put like that, it occurred to Miles that he wasn't safe—at least, his possessions weren't. Biting his lip, he tucked the letter into his back pocket and began tugging at his wedding band, which remained stubbornly in place. Scowling, he gave up on the ring and cast his eyes around for something he could defend himself with. A round shield lay wedged between a pair of salty-smelling barrels; holding his breath, Miles slipped off his perch and yanked it out, just as the thief rounded the corner in front of him. This man wasn't an outsider at all—he wore the same earth-red uniform shirt that Miles was still getting used to, albeit wrinkled, patched, and stretched over his stomach— but he did have a half-filled bag slung over one broad shoulder, and he seemed genuinely startled to see Miles standing there behind a weathered old shield.

"Huh," was all he managed to get out at first; his eyes roved over Miles quickly, thick eyebrows furrowed for just a second before his face fell into a grin. "I'd leave that where you found it. They catch you stealing, you'll be digging latrines for the next month."

"I wasn't stealin' it," Miles muttered, lowering the shield slightly but keeping his grip firm. "A-and what d'you call what you're doin', then?" The other soldier, who'd been running his thumb over the tips of the arrows, glanced back at him in modest surprise.

"Never said _I_ wasn't stealing. Day after a delivery, and you rookies getting into trouble already? I couldn't ask for a better opportunity." He snapped off a desirable arrowhead and dropped it into his bag. "Ought to thank you, really."

Miles didn't respond. The thief continued appraising what the tent had to offer without paying him mind, however. He moved decisively, but didn't seem to be in any hurry; it made Miles uneasy. If _he'd_ been caught stealing, he would've dropped whatever trinket he was holding and torn out of the tent. He didn't have much choice but to stay, though: the soldiers outside were undoubtedly still riled up, and while Miles couldn't trust the thief (and didn't fancy his chances against him in a fight), he hadn't made any threats. Running a hand through his dark, tousled hair, the soldier gazed around at the supplies in a final sweep.

"Well, that was disappointing," he said in an exhale, crouching down and pulling a bedroll out of the sack; he folded the bag, spoils and all, shoved it into the bottom of the bedroll, and bundled the whole thing up into a compact, unassuming package. Stowing it casually under his arm, he leaned back against one of the larger barrels and pulled a roll of bandages out of his pocket. "You didn't happen to see the captain on the way in here, did you?"

"I-I don't think so," said Miles, dropping the shield to his side.

"Eh, he shouldn't be long. That kid who lost it out there got roughed up pretty badly, from what I saw. You know him?" he asked, wrapping the end of the bandage absentmindedly between his fingers.

"I don't know anybody out here."

"No kidding? I thought they pulled you all out from the same village or something. You've all kinda got that squirrelly look to you. Then again, it's been a while since the last time Lawrence corked the regiment."

"Since he did what?"

The soldier slapped the barrel behind him. "Corked it. You know, filled in the holes. His men like to get themselves killed, you'll find."

"But we ain't even outta the country yet!" Miles stammered, his stomach turning over itself.

"Not in battle—though I can't imagine they'd be much better off. Nah, executions mostly," said the soldier nonchalantly. "Bad knife fights every once in a while."

"E-executions…?" Miles repeated feebly. "So… so the captain's tougher'n he looks, then?"

The other soldier snorted. "Lawrence? You won't find a bigger pushover in this army. That's why he got landed with a criminal regiment." He gestured in the direction of the encampment. "They'll follow orders just as long as he doesn't give too many of 'em. They think they've lucked out… 'course, the court-martial doesn't let much of anything slide. That's where the hangings come in," he added. "Throw a bunch of guys like that together next to a stash of weapons, and they won't want to stick to drills. They usually get caught—you know, arson, robbery, nothing subtle— but the higher-ups don't like stationing us near civilization anymore," he finished, sounding almost sad. A few seconds too late, Miles realized he was gaping and closed his mouth. The brief distraction of watching the other soldier pilfer supplies had taken his mind off of his anxiety, but it had returned in full force, somewhere around the words "criminal regiment." He tried soundlessly to form words, and then they came spilling out all at once:

"N-no… no, there's gotta be a mistake. I shouldn't be here, I-I never broke the law—they didn't pay me any mind before I got drafted, even— I _didn't break any laws—_"

"Whoa, slow down. I wasn't accusing you of anything. They're probably just a bit short on felons 'round these parts. Anyway, you won't be in any danger from Lawrence… you don't look much like the, ah… pillaging sort." He seemed content with his answer on Miles' behalf, though Miles was still trying to work through it himself. The soldier continued, "What'd you do before this, anyway?"

"I'm, uh… I was a shepherd," Miles replied.

"So you're not used to much activity then." Miles frowned; this was a little much coming from a fat thief who, judging by the state of his hair, had probably just rolled out of bed.

"It's a fair bit of work," he said, as importantly as he could with a quavering voice. "And we've got wild animals to contend with besides. Y'know, wolves, wyverns…."

"Wyverns?" The soldier raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. "Hm. I was envying you for a second there. So d'you fight them all off yourself, or...?"

Before Miles could answer, the tent flap opened again and the captain entered, a grimace fixed on his face. Hastily, Miles returned his shield to the floor, but the captain was clearly preoccupied: breathing curses to himself, he dove into the first crate inside the entrance. The thieving soldier sidled forward and cleared his throat.

"Ah, Captain?" Lawrence turned, a tangle of twine in hand. "You looking for this?" The soldier waved the bandage roll once before tossing it over, and Lawrence fumbled to catch it. "No idea what it was doing in here—did Murphey get into the disinfectant wine again, or….?"

The captain gave a reluctant snort. "If we still had any. That's gone too—unless you've seen it?" He frowned. "Why are you in here, Bruno?"

"Fishing line broke, sir. I figured nobody'd miss a bit of string." He nodded at the bundle in Lawrence's hand. "Were you gonna do anything with that, sir?" Lawrence rose and stepped forward to hand it over when he spotted Miles. He slowed, brow knotted.

"Who—? Er, what's your name, soldier?" His voice seemed to shrink in authority.

"Miles, sir, from Kempe."

Lawrence chuckled. "Well, you certainly will be tomorrow. Are you ready for the march, Miles?"

"S-suppose I'll have to be."

"Good man. You won't believe the way some of these boys are reacting." His gaze narrowed on the bandages as he counted rolls. "Well, they'll get one day before the hammer comes down—" Bruno bit back a grin, "—and then they'll have to learn to patch their own wounds." With that, he nodded at them curtly and turned to leave.

"Wait a second, Captain," said Bruno. "You haven't assigned tents to the new guys yet, have you?"

"I thought it best to wait 'til tonight," Lawrence said darkly.

"Well, there's a space in mine, and me and Miles've hit it off pretty well. Guy's got some riveting tales for a shepherd—you know he took on a wild wyvern?" Miles blinked, bewildered.

"N-now, hang on, that ain't the whole—" Bruno cut him off with a clap to the shoulder, a bit too sharp to be friendly.

"C'mon—being humble won't win you any favors out here. What'd you say the wingspan was on that thing? Thirty-odd feet?"

"I didn't say a word about anyone's wings—an' we never even talked about tents—"

Lawrence intervened with a pointed cough. "I'll have to hear it another time," he said, sounding heavily unimpressed. "I've got work to do, but I'll see to it that you board together, if it's that important to you."

"Cheers," said Bruno, keeping his grin in place until the captain left.

"What'n the hell was all that about?" Miles hissed. Bruno rounded on him, swelling like an angry cat.

"You better be glad Lawrence is as big an idiot as you are," he growled. "Were you _trying_ to rat me out?"

"I didn't mean to, but it looks like you woulda deserved it," Miles said boldly. "I might just go on back an'—" In one impossibly swift movement, Bruno grabbed him by the collar and pinned him roughly against the wall of crates.

"If he catches me stealing, I'm as good as dead," he said, voice low and threatening. "And if you're the one who lets that happen, you will be too. I'll see to that."

"Dead?" Miles choked. "I thought you said he just puts you t'work—"

"I've been makin' off with new supplies for four years now. It adds up, and a good chunk of it's sitting back in my tent. Point is, I'm doing you a favor right now. If you ended up with any of those other guys, they would've thrashed you just like that kid—or worse. Now, I'm not like that." He loosened his grip slightly, as if to emphasize his point. "But I need you to swear to me you won't let on about what I'm doing. You keep all of this secret, got it?" Miles nodded fervently, and Bruno let go. It took Miles a second to realize he was shaking; he'd never been threatened before, not like that. Evidently, Bruno took notice: he heaved a sigh through his nose, his frustrated expression softening somewhat.

"Never been good with first impressions," he grunted. "Look, I'm just—I'm trying to get by just like you are. You do that by keeping out of trouble here, and I gotta do it by smuggling. But as long as I can trust you, you can trust me, all right?"

He held out the hand he'd nearly throttled Miles with a moment before. Miles hesitated, feeling his throat dry up. The war had stayed far on the other side of Kempe for two years, and now that he'd left, it seemed to be closing in on him from all sides. But he had to decide on something. Holding his breath, he completed the handshake, brief and firm. In that moment, he felt his ring press against his finger, and his mind turned back, unbidden, to Chelsea. _I know that whatever happens on your end of things, you'll bear it with strength and dignity. I wouldn't have married a lesser man._ This was a leap of faith, and not his first. He'd had to trust every night for the last four years that Chelsea would wake up beside him the next morning and decide to spend another day in a cramped cabin on a cold pasture instead of the sturdy, storied house where she'd grown up in luxury. Maybe this smuggler wasn't trustworthy, but Miles had had plenty of practice at trusting—and now it would have to be his only defense.

* * *

**A/N**: In case you didn't notice, this isn't the same chapter that was posted before! And those other chapters that were there before aren't there now. It's been a long time coming, but I'm reworking this story piece-by-piece. I felt it would be better to go back and fix some of the foundational problems than to keep going with a faulty beginning still in place. I hope you enjoy the new stuff, and as always reviews are wonderful and great and I love hearing what you have to say. :D


End file.
